“Your father and I got to know each other rather well during the Occupation.” (A statement which left a great deal unsaid.) “Believe me, we were all grateful for his more enlightened attitude toward Psyclids. So . . .” T’kal looked from one young Kamal to the other. “As I’ve told you, I have never met your step-mother, but I hear she is both charming and kind. Your step-brother?” T’kal shrugged. “K’kadi takes some getting used to. But I suspect his wife, the Herc warrior, will be glad of another young woman in the house. And do not despair. Believe it or not, there is a palace on Blue Moon. And a court—though the residents tend to dress in rebel jumpsuits except on special occasions, and the ballroom was turned into a refectory long years ago.”
At the look on his sister’s face, Erik snorted a guffaw. “Guess you can stop mourning all the ballgowns you left behind.”
“Brat!” she hissed back.
“Yes, it will be different,” T’kal interjected, “but you will be living in greater beauty and privacy than you had at home, and your clothing will soon be replaced. Forgive the platitude of an old man, but ‘Life changes, life moves on.’ Neither of you are cowards. If you could adjust to what happened in the mountains, adjusting to Blue Moon will be easy.”
Yuliya studied T’kal with anxious eyes. “You understood how we would feel—when you asked if we were willing to go with you?”
“I knew it would be hard. And I did not know how close you were to your mother. As a father, I wanted what was right for both of you. And as a rebel, I did not want to create a possibly hostile distraction on Blue Moon.”
Yuliya nodded. “I understand. We thank you.”
“K’kadi’s a sorcerer, right?” Erik asked, eyes shining.
T’kal shook his head. “K’kadi is . . . K’kadi. I suspect you will share his love of fireworks.”
“Fireworks!”
T’kal waved the boy’s question away. “Enough for now. You’ll have plenty of time to find out for yourself. So . . .” He stood up. “Are we good?”
The Kamals chorused their agreement, Yuliya adding a more formal, “Thank you, Daman Killiri. We are forever grateful. Our family stands in your debt.”
The royal touch. You could take the Kamals out of the court, but there was no taking the court out of the Kamals.
As, T’kal feared, Tal Rigel would discover when the rebels took down the Empire.
Chapter 7
Veranelle, Blue Moon
T’kal dropped into a comfortable armchair in the guest suite he had come to think of as his due to the many times he had visited Blue Moon’s palace in recent years. Once the Orlondami family’s vacation retreat, Veranelle now belonged to the Princess L’ira (aka Kass Rigel), and with the freedom of movement now possible between Psyclid and Blue Moon, the four royal children had taken advantage of the opportunity to become closer, meeting for the most part on Blue Moon as Tal tried to preserve the secret of his identity as S’sorrokan, leader of the rebellion.
T’kal shut his eyes, plunged his head into his hands and heaved a long, heart-felt sigh. They’d actually done it. Mission accomplished.
They should all be dead, yet once again they had survived—the sorcerer and the wolf—this time with four offspring of two of the most powerful families in the Nebulon Sector in tow.
The only drawback? Fizzeting fizzet! He’d liked it. Welcomed every dangerous, painful minute of it. He, T’kal Killiri—married, father of four—had exulted in being back in action. Even as he sent word to B’aela while still at the spaceport, he was wondering when Tal would call upon him next.
Pok! He thought he’d put it all behind him, that all he wanted was to be left alone to build buildings and raise a family. He’d been wrong. The wolf wasn’t born for peace, and neither was he.
T’kal groaned, slitting his eyes open to peer at the well-stocked bar that was a feature of all Veranelle guest rooms. His stretch toward a bottle of karst was interrupted by a knock on the door. Odd. He’d been welcomed and thanked by what seemed like every Very Important Person on Blue Moon, with the exception of K’kadi’s wife who had just given birth to a girl. So more likely a maid checking to see if there was anything he needed. Somehow, in spite of crowded conditions, B’ram Biryani still managed to run Veranelle with all the amenities of a luxury hotel.
T’kal hauled himself to his feet, opened the door, and bristled. If in wolf form, every hair would have been standing on end, a low growl issuing from his throat.
“May I come in?” Rand Kamal asked.
Even at well past forty, Kamal was a golden god—a hand’s width taller than T’kal, no sign of a middle-aged paunch. His hair was as blond as the day they’d first met, and sharply intelligent Reg blue eyes shone out of a high cheek-boned, aristocratic face that proclaimed Rand Kamal’s von Baalen blood even more strongly than the sculptured features of his distant cousin, Talryn Rigel.
T’kal waved him to a seat, held up the bottle of karst. Kamal nodded. When they had each taken a sip, Kamal broke the silence. “We go back a long way, Daman Killiri.”
T’kal’s lips curled in a rue-filled twitch. “We do.”
“You were a thorn in our side long before I became Governor-General—though I must admit it was a long time before we suspected a low-profile engineer of being our worst enemy.”
T’kal’s lips expanded into what might be called a wolfish grin.
“You should know I applauded Grigorev’s end—his treatment of the Princess M’lani was inexcusable—although, again, at the time I had no idea we had you to thank.” Rand took a hefty swallow of karst before saying oh-so-casually, “Tell me, Killiri, did you plan my—ah—interlude with B’aela?”
T’kal choked on his karst. “Her idea,” he got out. “I was furious.”
Kamal nodded, accepting the truth, relegating the past to the past. “She is well?”
“Very well, though the twins threaten to drive us to insanity,” T’kal returned evenly, confirming the offer of peace between them. At least for the moment.
Rand Kamal looked his old adversary straight in the eye. “When I thanked you at the spaceport earlier, I had not heard the full extent of the tale, which turned out to be far worse than I anticipated. I know my father is ruthless, but to allow . . .” The Reg admiral stumbled to a halt. “You are my children’s hero, Killiri. An honor well earned. Now and forever, I am in your debt.”
“Even after we knock Darroch off his throne?”
“Even then.” The two former enemies eyed each other, the unspoken question lying between them. What happens if both Rand Kamal and Tal Rigel want to be in charge of the world after Darroch?
Kamal poured seconds for both of them, raised his glass. “To new beginnings.” They clinked glasses, drank. They could live with a favor owed. But trust? That was an altogether different matter.
Tal Rigel leaned back in his office chair and gazed at the two Psyclids on the other side of the desk. “You’re back,” he said. “And in one piece. Surviving the Regs without killing each other while you were at it. Remarkable.”
Ignoring the stone faces that greeted his remark, Tal waved to his aide, Jor Sagan, who poured three generous helpings of Blue Moon’s own lunelle before leaving the bottle on a side table and exiting Tal’s study. Tal raised his glass, Jagan and T’kal following his lead. “To a successful mission!” They drank.
Turning to T’kal, Tal asked, “You are recovering?”
“I am blessed with rapid recovery. It is part of what I am.”
Eyes fixed on the blue wine in his glass, Tal nodded. “It sometimes amazes me that my people are so determined not to believe in anything they cannot see or touch.” He huffed a sigh. “It will be their downfall.”
“When do we go?” T’kal asked. Fizzit! He sounded like some overeager recruit instead of a man who longed to go home, hug his wife and children, build buildings . . .
“The Hercs tell me they are nearly ready,” Tal returned. “Some interesting developments there, by the way. N
ekator has put Drakos in charge of their invasion Fleet—”
“He’s a general,” Jagan interrupted. “A fizzeting foot-pounder. What does he know about—”
“We may not like him, but he’s an excellent strategist. Evidently, the old admiral—Andreadis—hand-picked him.”
“Is Drakos not the one who tortured Kamal?” T’kal asked.
“He is,” Tal returned, “but the Hercs, like the Regs, tend to see war in black in white, whereas the rebels—with our attitudes suitably adjusted by living among the Psys—tend to be a bit more compassionate.”
Into the tense silence after that telling remark, Tal offered, “There’s more. Rumor has it Drakos is likely to be Nekator’s heir.”
“Pok!” Jagan breathed.
“An interesting situation,” Tal continued. “It’s a good thing we have informants on Hercula. “It could get tricky if the Hercs take all the tech help we’ve given them to rebuild their fleet, then decide they prefer to replace the Reg Empire with their own, turning on us the moment Darroch falls.”
“And maybe Drakos wants his bride back,” Jagan drawled.
Both Tal and T’kal stared at him. “Now that,” Tal admitted, “I didn’t think of. So . . . whenever we go, it looks like we should be ready for treachery from our allies.”
“It seems likely,” T’kal agreed.
“Maybe K’kadi could just give Alala back?” Jagan suggested, allowing his cynicism full rein.
Tal shot a lethal look in the sorcerer’s direction.
“So when do we turn Darroch to dust?” Jagan shot back.
Tal focused on the Psyclid Sorcerer Prime, the two leaders a striking contrast, as always—Jagan Mondragon so dark, Tal Rigel ever the golden, blue-eyed Reg warrior. “I would prefer a victory less catastrophic,” he returned mildly. “As for when . . . I need all my special weapons fully functional. That means Kass recovered from childbirth, K’kadi recovered from double fatherhood, B’aela and M’lani not pregnant.” S’sorrokan, rebel leader, exchanged significant looks with his brothers-in-law. Each knew him well enough to meet his stern look with sardonic grins.
“Which means,” Tal continued smoothly, “close to a Tri-moon cycle from now.
Jagan groaned.
“We’ve waited a long time,” Tal said, “We can manage ten more Blue Moon cycles. Keep in mind that our preparations must be perfect. This will be a one-time thing. If we fail, we’re all dead.”
“And if we win,” Jagan added, “we could still all be dead. If Drakos gets his way.”
“You do recall the ancient Earth saying about crossing a bridge?” Tal inquired softly.
“The one about not crossing a bridge until you come to it?” T’kal offered.
“Yeah, that one.” Tal raised his glass. “To the Rebellion.” The three rebel leaders finished their lunelle in one gulp.
“Invite your wives to Blue Moon,” Tal said. “Enjoy a few days’ vacation. You’ve earned it. Then return home and savor the next few cycles. I’ll need both of you by my side when we confront Darroch.”
“Me?” T’kal thought he must have misheard.
“No resting on your laurels, Killiri. I’ll need both you and the wolf.”
Pok, dimi, and fyd! They expected him to be a hero. Again.
Inwardly, the wolf howled a battle cry.
The home of Anneli Amund Kamal, Blue Moon
Six Blue Moon days later
“She is precious,” Kass cooed, beaming at Alala’s baby, nestled in her mother’s arms. “Have you settled on a name?”
“L’relia Xia. A compromise, “Alala added, her face hardening.
The other four women recognized the bitterness behind the word compromise. For Alala, compromise was a sword that cut deep—her years on Blue Moon seldom allowing an outlet for her warrior ways. Even her marriage had been a compromise—her husband stepping forward to save his mother, sister, and lover from King Nekator. They’d all known K’kadi’s infatuation with the Herc warrior was long gone, iced to death by Alala’s indifference and scorn. But to acquire Hercula as an ally, an alliance had to be made. And in the end, it was Alala and K’kadi, each bound by duty, who made the sacrifice. The years since had not been bad, but never, ever would Alala be able to understand how her husband’s mind worked.
Not that anyone truly understood K’kadi.
“L’relia means Beauty,” Anneli cut in smoothly, long accustomed to dealing with her daughter-in-law’s prickly nature.
“I wonder if she’ll have K’kadi’s hair,” M’lani ventured, staring at the infant’s perfectly bald head. “Can’t you just see it—a little girl with masses of silver-blonde hair?”
B’aela, never as enchanted by newborns, allowed her mind to drift to something closer to her heart. These last few days on Blue Moon—having T’kal to herself in the suite of rooms Kass always set aside for them—had been their first true vacation in a very long time. She had even managed to congratulate him on his success instead of falling into the role of deserted and terrified wife, a state of mind she had battled the entire time he was gone. In the old days, they had both charged ahead, thinking themselves invincible. Now they knew better. And it was hard.
B’aela looked up and caught M’lani’s eye. Had her younger sister sensed where her thoughts were wandering? After all, Jagan had been as much at risk as T’kal, the situation not helped by T’kal and Jagan being forced to work together once again. And, wonder of wonders, from what T’kal had told her, the two of them had made some semblance of peace with their arch-enemy Rand Kamal.
At least for now.
M’lani nodded, turned back to her other sister. “Are you feeling better now?”
“Beginning to,” Kass returned, rolling her eyes. “Why this one should be so different I have no idea.”
“Another K’kadi?” Alala offered. “Anneli tells me she was extremely ill the first three months. While I . . .?” The Herc warrior shrugged. “I experienced no ill effects at all.”
But King Ryal’s three daughters and his former mistress didn’t hear Alala’s last few words. All four were staring at her in horror.
“And I thought the twins were difficult,” B’aela murmured.
“May the Goddess spare us,” Anneli breathed.
“Stop it!” Kass cried. “We all love K’kadi dearly. And the way he’s going, he’ll likely be strong enough to take down Darroch all by himself.”
“You,” Anneli declared most awfully, “did not have the raising of him.”
Kass turned her most regal look on Anneli. “Later, after he joined the rebels, I did. And a chore it was, I admit. But worth every bit of the effort. And now that he’s able to communicate and we know so much more about him . . .” With a grand wave of her hand, Kass consigned the prospect of adding yet another massively strange child to Psyclid’s odd array of talents to where it belonged: a problem to be dealt with when, and if, it happened.
Kass, M’lani, and B’aela made their farewells and returned to Veranelle, leaving Anneli to cope with her reluctant daughter-in-law and the imminent arrival of a second grandchild only a few weeks after the first.
Chapter 8
Rand Kamal removed his black brocade bedrobe and settled himself against a stack of satin-finished pillows. A smile tugged at his lips as he watched his wife brush her long blonde hair. “How was your gathering of ladies?” he inquired with the cool appearance of innocence which had served him well when acting Governor-General of Psyclid. (What he did not know he was not required to act upon.) “Your family debut as a grandmother, I believe?”
Anneli dropped her brush, eyeing him with considerable annoyance. “Just because I bore K’kadi at eighteen, and you did not marry until you were nearly thirty—”
Rand laughed. “I assure you, you are the youngest, most beautiful grandmother I have ever seen.” When Anneli flashed a somewhat mollified smile and returned to brushing her hair, he pursued his first question. “Did the sterling array of princesses suitably
admire the newest addition to the Orlondami line?”
Anneli stared into her dressing table mirror, seeing not herself but a vision of her remarkable visitors. She crossed to the bed and sat down facing her husband, a slight frown marring the perfection of the beauty that had caught King Ryal’s attention so long ago. “The only word I can think of to describe this afternoon is ‘surreal’. There was Alala, holding her baby when there’s no doubt in my mind she would have preferred to be holding her sword. Around her, an array of princesses even more dangerous. They may have been making all the traditional motherly sounds over our L’relia, but one has the power to move spaceships as if they were toys. Another can conjure dragons and who knows what else without the aid of her shapeshifter husband. The third is capable of destroying anything in her path—armaments, spaceships . . . people. Yet every one of them looked as innocent as the baby.”
“And here we are, together,” Rand countered, “a Psyclid and a Regulon, leading totally peaceful lives on the moon of an obscure planet, when you know as well as I do—as well as Ryal’s daughters do—that this respite is for the purpose of building our resources for war. Yes, we have also used the time for reproducing. Possibly,” he added on a more bitter note, “hoping that if the rebels lose, there will still be someone left to carry on the fight in the next genera—”
“Do not say that, I beg of you.”
Rand scrubbed a hand through hair so blond the wisps of gray were almost invisible. “In less than one of your Tri-moon cycles, we will be at war. I will be at war. We all—well, almost all,” he amended, eyes fixed fondly on the top of Anneli’s head—“live multiple lives. As lovers, fathers and mothers, and as warriors—fighters for what we believe.”
“But you—you are not one of us,” Anneli protested. “You are—were—the enemy. Darroch’s blood.”
“Tal Rigel captained one of the Reg ships that invaded Psyclid. Or have you forgotten that?”
Anneli sat up, looking her husband straight in the eye. “You will fight on the rebel side?”
Royal Rebellion Page 6
